


POTION FOR EXCITING LOVE IN THE HEART OF THE PERSON WHO IS THE OBJECT OF OUR DESIRE

by Ellipsical



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Cause they're already in love, Established Relationship, Love Potion/Spell, M/M, Rimming, This is an Aziraphale's arse appreciation post, but not really
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-12
Updated: 2020-01-12
Packaged: 2021-02-27 16:00:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,717
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22229812
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ellipsical/pseuds/Ellipsical
Summary: “Besides, a potion wouldn’t work on me anyway,” Crowley said, his voice deep and sleepy. When Aziraphale glanced up at him, his eyes were closed. His chest, beneath Aziraphale, rose in a steady rthythm. “I’m already in love with you, as you well know.”“I know,” Aziraphale said, kissing his jaw softly. “It’s always nice to hear, though. I love you too, you know, demon. Very, very much.”Crowley sighed and turned on his side, sliding his knee between Aziraphale’s, his arm around his waist, and resting his chin on top of Aziraphale’s curls. Aziraphale snuggled in, enjoying the rangy warmth radiating off Crowley’s body. He let his eyes slip closed, breathing in Crowley’s scent. A nap sounded like just the thing.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 50
Kudos: 184





	POTION FOR EXCITING LOVE IN THE HEART OF THE PERSON WHO IS THE OBJECT OF OUR DESIRE

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lawyer_margo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lawyer_margo/gifts).



> * = some terminology and bibliography at the end.

The button on his right cuff was coming loose.

Aziraphale frowned down at it, as if to convey his ardent disappointment in its faulty threading. As if through this display of his displeasure it would simply right itself. If Crowley was here he would just have a few cross words with it, threaten it within an inch of its life, and things would sort themselves nicely.

Where was Crowley when you needed him? A demon had no compunction about fixing such things, but an angel must be more discerning in the use of minor miracles. Or, well, he ought once to have been, but did it matter so very much any more? This meting out of miracles? A break with Heaven had surely occurred, had it not? And Aziraphale was no longer beholden to the whims of Gabriel. Was he?

For instance, Aziraphale, once of the exalted Cherubim, once defender of the eastern gate of the Garden of Eden, once Angel of the Flaming Sword, now relegated to the ranks of Ishim*, by choice and then, more formally, by official reprimand, was sitting in the ante-chamber of a witch (self-professed Practical Occultist to be exact) about to pick up a love potion. A situation that surely would have made Gabriel sneer. Witches had a long and complicated past with the legions of Heaven, a past which for the greater part of human history had seen witches cast as servants of Satan, however Aziraphale was coming to realise that this might have been another of those pesky things that Heaven had gotten wrong. In the case of Anathema at least, it had turned out that there were witches on the side of Good (which led to the extrapolation that witches might have been on the side of Good this whole time). Whether the side of Good and the side of Heaven were the same side had yet to be decided as far as Aziraphale was concerned. A fact, he noted with chagrin, that Crowley had been trying to get him to concede for some time now.

Rather than travel further down that line of thinking—the line where Crowley was right about Heaven (Heaven forfend!)—Aziraphale rose and went to inspect the bookshelves that lined the opposite wall. They were encased in glass doors and behind them sat rows and rows of glass jars of varying sizes and colours. To each was affixed a card upon which Anathema’s neat handwriting could be seen. 

_"Angelica – warding and banishing, angelic magick, summoning strength_

_Bearberry – psychic awareness, dreams, courage, smudging and offerings_

_Blessed Thistle – consecration, protection, healing and cleansing by fire_

_Blue Vervain – spells of love and advancement, astral travel, initiation_

_Cinnamon – passion, shielding, quick success, spirit evocation, fire magick_

_Comfrey – healing, restoration, lucky herb of travelers and gamblers_

_Feverfew– humble flower renowned for its curative properties, a magickal “fix-all”_

_Marjoram - protection, married love, calming the mind, easing grief_

_Marshmallow Root – love charms, psychic powers, protection, drawing good spirits_

_Meadowsweet – sacred flower of Spring, the Maiden, and the Underworld_

_Pennyroyal– calmness, endurance, patience, dispelling anger, warding_

_Rue – warding, exorcism, cleansing, love-drawing and protective charms_

_Yarrow– ancient medicinal flower used for courage, divination, good fortune"*_

Aziraphale smiled at her meticulous taxonomy and organisation. Agnes Nutter would have been proud. Just then the door to Ana’s workshop opened behind him and Aziraphale turned to greet his friend.

Anathema stood there, leaning into the door jamb, looking at him with slightly pursed lips and disapproving eyes.

“My dear, what is it?” Aziraphale asked, his stomach dropping. He hated to think he had wronged her in some way.

“We’ve been over this before, angel,” came the voice of Pepper from somewhere behind Ana. A second later she stepped out from behind Ana’s brocade coat as Aziraphale approached. (Despite quailing somewhat before the might of Pepper’s righteous indignation, Aziraphale made a note to inquire as to the coat’s story. It really was splendid and done in a lovely black silk. The detail work was quite stunning. He might be able to ask for one in gold, or no, cream! Oh, he hadn’t had a proper brocade coat since the early eighteenth century at least.) Aziraphale, enraptured with this idea and forgetting for a moment the pickle he was in, opened his mouth to ask, but Pepper cut him off. 

“Love potions aren’t ethical.”

Aziraphale smiled, a bit timidly, down at the girl. “It’s not for me.”

“Love potions strip a person’s agency away,” Pepper continued, glaring up at him. “We don’t think we should give this to you.”

Aziraphale glanced at Ana who’s mouth was set very sternly indeed, but who’s eyes were dancing merrily at him from behind her round spectacles. Aziraphale relaxed a little to see such mirth. Human morality could be full of twists and turns that Aziraphale, in all his considerable time spent with humanity, still couldn't fully intuit. His relief only lasted a moment though for Pepper jabbed her finger into his sternum, startling him. Aziraphale began to back up into the room, advanced on by his formidable opponent.

“You’re giving someone an inordinate amount of power, you know. _We_ don’t think it’s right. Everyone should be able to choose who and when and how they fall in love. _We_ think _we_ ought not to give this to you,” Pepper said, wielding that haughty ‘we’ with great relish. Aziraphale raised both eyebrows in a plea for help, but Ana simply shrugged from her perch in the doorway. Aziraphale reminded himself that the morality of children could be even more black and white than adults, less acknowledgement of all the gradation between.

“You know, Pepper, love, I couldn’t agree more,” Aziraphale manoeuvred, trying to steer the conversation back to more familiar, cordial ground.

“Don’t call me love,” Pepper said, finally removing her finger from Aziraphale’s chest as he came up short against the front door. She took a step backwards, relenting, if only a little, and Aziraphale took a deep, fortifying breath. “It’s sexist.”

“Is it?” Aziraphale asked, thoroughly confused. Wasn’t it a term of endearment? An endearment meant to make one feel cherished? Again, he found no help from Ana’s quarter.

“It’s condescending,” Pepper clarified. “And considering both of our genders and our races, and, come to think of it, our mortal/immortal relationship, there’s an innate power imbalance.”

“Is there?” Aziraphale asked, foundering for footing.

“We’d like to know who this potion is for before we decide if we’re going to sell it to you.” Pepper folded her arms across her chest and looked up at him expectantly.

Aziraphale wilted a little against the door, pinned there by Pepper’s eyes. “Well, you see, it’s for Lila Smithers. Do you know her? She teaches sixth form?” Pepper narrowed her eyes at him and he rushed to fill in the pertinent details. “As it turns out, she’s quite desperately in love with Prima Agarwal, the actuary? Prima’s actually quite desperately in love with Lila too, so you see, I didn’t see what harm the love potion would do, except, well, to help things along a bit? They’re both terribly shy and it could take ages otherwise.” 

Pepper turned to look at Ana over her shoulder. Ana made a facial expression that Aziraphale read as acquiescence and Aziraphale wilted further against the door, this time in relief, as Pepper turned to stalk back across the room to collect the wine bottle from Ana’s hand.

“You got lucky this time, angel,” Pepper said, grudgingly pushing the bottle into his hands, along with a card that read in bold capitals: POTION FOR EXCITING LOVE IN THE HEART OF THE PERSON WHO IS THE OBJECT OF OUR DESIRE. “That will be one hundred pounds, please.”

Aziraphale blinked up at Ana, shocked. Ana simply raised her eyebrows at him.

“Certainly,” Aziraphale said, regaining some of his natural cheer. “Anything for love.”

Pepper, unsurprisingly, was unmoved. “We take cash, cheque, or Venmo and expect payment up front for services rendered.”

**********

The morning’s ordeal called for comfort of the first order and upon returning home Aziraphale did what he did best in times of tribulation. He baked a triple layer Death by Chocolate Cake with buttercream frosting, ate half of it while sipping espresso, and then submerged himself in a bubble bath for the better part of an hour with a good book for company. He emerged feeling much himself again.

Wrapping a towel around his head and swaddling himself in his softest robe Aziraphale headed towards the kitchen, intending to retrieve a bottle of Domaine de la Romanee-Conti La Tache Grand Cru Monopole, Cote de Nuits, France 1996. A sommelier had once described its palate as ineffable, thereby winning Aziraphale’s attention, with notes of blackberry, cassis, truffle, and tar. At 45,000 pounds a bottle it had been out of even Heaven’s considerable reach, but that was when being friends with a demon came in handy. For just as they had no compunction over miracling buttons back into line, they had no quibble with stealing either. In fact, quite the opposite. Aziraphale had two boxes of the stuff in the basement. Perhaps he would give Crowley a call and they could enjoy the bottle together.

He was just reaching into the pocket of his robe for his mobile to do just that when he caught sight of the very same demon perched at his kitchen counter draining a wine glass dry. Aziraphale’s overwhelming first reaction to seeing Crowley in his kitchen was joy of such magnitude that his every extremity tingled deliciously, but his second was crashing dismay to see that the bottle Crowley had been drinking from was none other than Lila Smither’s love potion.

“Oh, bother,” Aziraphale said, coming forward into the room. Crowley, his yellow irises sweeping Aziraphale’s body in a long, slow stroke, taking in the towel and the peach coloured cloud he was wrapped in and making heat bloom every place his appreciative gaze touched, wasn’t paying any mind yet to Aziraphale’s perturbation. “Crowley, I’ll have you know that I spent the better part of my morning being harangued by a young feminist witch to get that bottle you’ve so quickly devoured and I’m rather put out that I’ll have to go back tomorrow and beg another.”

Crowley looked down at the bottle on the counter and then back up at Aziraphale. “You bought bewitched wine? Why? Don’t I keep you in the finest bottles? What are you doing muddling about with witches for?”

Aziraphale sighed. “It wasn’t wine, demon. It was a potion.”

Crowley’s eyebrows twitched, climbing towards the sweep of garnet hued hair that rose in a rakish wave off his forehead.

“A potion for what?”

“Love,” Aziraphale said miserably. He really didn’t want to go back and face Pepper’s ire again.

“Love?” Crowley looked throughly flummoxed. “Who’re you trying to magick into loving you?”

Aziraphale shook his head, forlorn. He opened his mouth to explain, but Crowley was up and moving towards him before he could tell him the story of Lila and Prima. Heaven, he was quick. Aziraphale should know this by now, but it continually surprised him, the speed with which Crowley moved. In the space of two seconds Aziraphale found himself once more with his back against a wall, this time with the infernal heat of a demon rolling over him instead of the disdain of an irate young woman. Aziraphale swallowed, his fingertips pressed into the wallpaper. He did his best not to breathe through his nose. If he did he’d lose his bearings completely. Crowley smelled of pitch and pine and woodsmoke, of nights spent outside in winter. It overwhelmed Aziraphale’s senses, especially when coupled with the heat of his body, so close, and burning through the paltry layer of his robe.

“Do you mean to tell me that I just drank a whole bottle of love potion?”

“I’m afraid so,” Aziraphale confirmed, breathing carefully through his mouth, his heart racing madly, as Crowley rested one palm against the wall on either side of Aziraphale’s face, leaning in.

“A potion you just left lying about on your counter for any poor sod to drink?” Crowley’s irises were dizzying. Aziraphale’s breaths came in tiny gasps.

“Well, not any poor sod,” Aziraphale whispered, in his defence. “You’re the only one who ever visits without an invitation, after all, and—“

“Then I suppose it’s lucky that I’m already the object of your affection and not some random bloke off the street, eh?”

The kiss that followed this declaration was the sort of universe bending, celestial traversing, speed of light transcending stuff that made Aziraphale feel blessed to have a corporeal body with which to experience it. The human body was a marvel of sensation. In addition to a fondness for humans themselves, such delightful curiosities as they were, the main reason why Aziraphale had wanted to join the ranks of the Ishim and stay incorporated for centuries was primarily because of the way humans experienced pleasure. There was nothing like it in his angelic form. Aether simply couldn’t feel the thousand nerves awakened by a single fingertip gliding up the inside of one’s thigh, for instance.

Especially when that single fingertip belonged to a fiend who was forged in hellfire and who you happened to be quite helplessly, quite hopelessly really, in love with.

This kissing practice was new. So new in fact that Aziraphale didn’t know quite what to do with himself when it was happening. Had it even been a month since Crowley had leaned over and kissed him to shut him up from going on and on about some book of revelations he had recently managed to unearth in the German Alps? (It wasn’t Aziraphale’s fault that Anathema had so shortsightedly burned the companion piece to Agnes Nutter’s Nice and Accurate Prophecies. If Crowley was right and they were the only ones on the side of the humans in the war to come, then it followed that an 11th century diary written by a Bavarian monk named Gregor which was rumoured to foretell the end of the world, would be helpful, no?) Whatever the circumstances, it had led to more kissing and more kissing still and then to activities that Aziraphale had only read about in books (from the Restricted Section).

The fingertip sliding up the inside of his thigh was therefore more promising and exciting than as terrifying as it had been before.

“Angel,” Crowley murmured, his breath on Azirphale’s lips.

“Yes?”

“May I remove your robe? It’s rather in the way.”

“Oh, oh, yes,” Aziraphale said, his hands tangling eagerly with Crowley’s as they both reached to undo the tie simultaneously. Aziraphale gave it up quickly, letting his demon take over, instead, threading his fingers into Crowley’s thick hair and bringing his mouth back down to claim his own.

“God, the heat of you,” Crowley growled, as his hands slid inside the parting folds of the robe to press against Aziraphale’s skin.

“Language,” Aziraphale reprimanded him breathlessly, his head swimming. “I should say the same of you, you know. Your hands are hot, Crowley; they fairly scald me.”

“Does it hurt?” There was an endearing little knot of worry between Crowley’s golden eyes that made Aziraphale’s heart squeeze with affection.

“No.” Aziraphale shook his head. “Quite the opposite in fact.”

Crowley made a rumbly, purring noise low in his throat and kissed him hungrily, pressing all the burning length of himself against all the burning length of Aziraphale, joining their flames together.

It was said that Ishim bodies were crafted from fire and snow, divine forms molded from Heaven’s own light to house the beautiful souls of justice and truth. A demon therefore, wrought of Hell’s fire and brimstone, but still originally crafted from the same ethereal stock, felt that answering spark inside the angel he touched as a suffusion of heat when it was held within its earthly form.

“Aziraphale, will you turn for me?” Crowley whispered in Aziraphale’s ear, his hands on Aziraphale’s hips, as he gently urged him to twist, until Aziraphale was facing the wall. Crowley unwound the towel from Azirphale’s head and discarded it. “That’s just beautiful. Thank you, love,” Crowley said, nudging the collar of the robe aside to kiss down the curve of Aziraphale’s throat. Aziraphale did not take offence at the term of endearment, as Pepper had done, instead basking in it and feeling exactly how he had meant it earlier: cherished.

The robe, some man made miracle material that was soft as fox fur was flushed against Aziraphale’s skin as Crowley drew his palms down the outside of Aziraphale’s body, encouraging the robe to puddle in the small of his back and catch in the bend of his elbows.

“Gorgeous,” Crowley breathed, clearly awed. “You know you glow when you’re like this? Well, you always glow, at least to me, but fuck me, Azi, you’re all lit up when I’m touching you.”

Normally Aziraphale had to put no small amount of effort into controlling how strong an aura he gave off, lest he attract attention. It had become a commonplace activity, as normal as brushing his teeth or bathing, but when he was with Crowley he didn’t have to control it and so he didn’t.

Crowley trailed one finger down the seam of Aziraphale’s spine. The slow sensual glide made the tension in Aziraphale unwind. His arms unlocked and slipped to his sides, letting the robe fall softly to the floor.

Crowley groaned as the rest of Aziraphale’s body was revealed to him. He palmed Aziraphale’s hip and wrapped the other around his waist, tugging them together so that Crowley was draped over Aziraphale’s back, his nose nuzzling into the hair that curled at the nape of Aziraphale’s neck, pushing hot, wet, urgent kisses into his skin. Crowley’s scent enveloped him, sharp and resinous and cool. Aziraphale breathed it deep into his lungs, crisp as a night spent out under the stars.

“I want to do something to you, and it might seem funny at first, but I promise that you’re going to like it. Will you trust me?”

“What is it?” Aziraphale asked, turning his head to the side to try and catch Crowley’s eye.

“It’s better if I show you, yeah?”

Aziraphale swallowed, his throat thick. “All right.”

It wasn’t that he was apprehensive per say, everything that Crowley had initiated thus far had been phenomenal on every level, but Aziraphale still felt staggeringly behind Crowley in this respect and it was disconcerting to not know how one’s body would react at any given moment, especially in such a vulnerable position as this.

But he trusted Crowley, and so when he instructed Aziraphale to place his hands on the wall so that he might brace himself, he did so at once.

Crowley made his way down Aziraphale’s back, taking his time to run his lips over every part: across his shoulders and over the wings of his shoulder blades, following the path of his spine down into the curve of his lower back.

Aziraphale heard his knees hit the floor as he knelt at Aziraphale’s feet, his hands moving over the abundant flesh of Aziraphale’s arse. Aziraphale shivered, curling his toes against the floor and flexing his fingers against the wall, as Crowley praised it reverently.

“Christ, if this isn’t the plumpest, juiciest arse I’ve ever seen.” Aziraphale didn’t have enough air in his lungs to chastise him for language again and let the curse slide (it was pointless anyway, trying to reform a demon, even if Aziraphale hadn’t admitted defeat quite yet). Crowley’s hands squeezed and bounced and weighed it in their palms. “It’s the prettiest colour too. You turn the most stunning shade of rose, did you know that, Azi?” Aziraphale shook his head in response, bottom lip caught between his teeth, still speechless, his hips swaying of their own accord, pressing back into Crowley’s touch.

“This is where you’ll have to trust me, ok?” Crowley said, his hands each taking one of Aziraphale’s cheeks in a firm grip. “If you don’t like it, just tell me. But give it a second to get used to it, promise?”

“Promise,” Aziraphale choked out, his eyes shut tight in anticipation, for by now he had guessed at what Crowley was about to do.

It did nothing to prepare him, of course, for the feeling elicited by Crowley’s clever tongue licking over the entrance to Aziraphale’s body.

A lightning flash sizzle of a feeling that surged out through him to fill every corner with its crackling scorch.

“Oh!” Aziraphale exclaimed, tensing for a moment at the newness of the sensation, at the effervescent brightness of it, before flowing down to fit himself more tightly against Crowley’s mouth.

Crowley moaned against him, tonguing at him, in response.

Aziraphale had made numerous guesses as to what type of angel Crowley had been before his Fall, but the one he kept returning to was saraph, which, while being a high class of angel, was also a word for snake*. That Crowley had been the snake that tempted Eve had all but confirmed it for Aziraphale, not least his unique eyes or his sibilant s’es or the sinuous way his body moved when he walked. And for this particular task this aspect of Crowley was allowed to shine.

The flickering, for one. So deft, so light. It drove Aziraphale almost mad, trying to press back further, to get more pressure, so that he was bent almost double by the time Crowley finally took pity on him and pressed his hot wet mouth against where Aziraphale wanted him.

This angle gave him a perfect view of his cock. Standing out straight from his body, it swayed in the air, heavy and thick. Arousal pooled there, at the base of his belly and in the tops of his thighs, hot and pounding along with his heart.

And the licking; THE LICKING! Long, wet stripes cleaving him in two. With Crowley’s fingers dug deep into Aziraphale’s cheeks, he held Aziraphale open, laying him bare to the heat and slickness of his tongue. The man was wanton with his moans as he enjoyed the taste of Aziraphale and Aziraphale blushed to hear himself match them, whining and moaning and whimpering in response.

What Aziraphale wouldn’t give for a word to shout out when Crowley finally began working his tongue in earnest against Aziraphale’s hole. For want of a curse Aziraphale just began saying Crowley’s name, gasping it and crying it out, as Crowley breached the pulsing ring of him and entered inside.

Crowley had taken him before but this felt entirely different. It brought Aziraphale reeling right to the brink of pleasure, but would not send him teetering over as it had when Crowley had been inside him. This was a maddeningly fleeting feeling that teased at orgasm, but wasn’t quite enough to carry through on its promise. It left Aziraphale wracked and panting, squirming and leaking all over the floor. He watched his poor cock arc through the air, wanting desperately to take it in hand, but Aziraphale was afraid that if he did his knees would buckle and he would fall.

“Crowley,” he gasped. “Crowley!”

“Yes?” His voice was cracked and raspy from attending to Aziraphale so assiduously. It was rather sexy wasn’t it?

“Darling, I’m afraid I’m quite in desperate need of your cock.”

“Oh, right oh. Let me just.”

“Oh!”

Demons, they had no scruples performing miracles, and so it was that Aziraphale’s thighs were drenched and his channel prepared as Crowley guided the head of his cock to where his tongue had been not seconds before.

Aziraphale straightened slightly, bracing one hand on the wall and knitting the other up with Crowley’s on the curve of his own hip as Crowley edged his way inside.

“Bugger, bugger, fuck, fuck,” Crowley muttered, letting his forehead drop to Aziraphale’s shoulder.

“Yes, exactly. Just so,” Aziraphale agreed, wholeheartedly, bearing down to take him deeper. And deeper still. The sweet ache thudded dully through him, beating in time with his heart.

“You’re burning up,” Crowley said, his lips at Aziraphale’s ear as his cock thrust in slow measured movements into him. “It’s like holding an ember in my hands.”

“I’m close,” Aziraphale said, trembling all over, and even he could see his aura now, shimmering around them both and casting crystalline rainbows onto the walls, as if his wings were unfurled and sunlight was pouring through them.

“Here, let me.” Crowley took Aziraphale into the hot grip of his hand and worked him, once, twice. Driving Aziraphale forward into the tight circle of his fist as the head of his cock rubbed against Aziraphale’s prostate deep inside. (Oh, that Aziraphale could extol the wonders of a prostate to the angelic hoards.) His orgasm began then, ringing out first as chimes through him, peals of clear brilliant sensation, until he was reverberating with it, a pure sonorant note of pleasure.

Crowley followed him not long after, his hips jerking as he came, buried inside Aziraphale, their hands clutched up tightly together, holding on.

Aziraphale thought that the kissing after they came was somehow even sweeter than that that went before.

Crowley’s lips were softer now, his hunger sated, and he was more content to let Aziraphale plunder him with his tongue, to explore him at his own pace, which, it had been noted, was much more measured than Crowley’s own. Aziraphale liked the sweet, drowsy way Crowley leaned into him, resting his body against Aziraphale’s with his arms wrapped loosely around Aziraphale’s waist.

One more miracle, this time to make that which was wet dry again, and then they were ensconced on the sofa together, Aziraphale swaddled once more in his robe and Crowley in his jeans. 

“Do you suppose that was the doing of the potion?” Aziraphale asked, more conversationally than anything, his head resting on Crowley’s chest.

Crowley scoffed. “No, that was the doing of your spectacular arse, more like.”

“Really?” Aziraphale said, looking up at him, feeling a small blush set up shop in his cheeks.

“You’re glowing again, angel,” Crowley said, his voice all growly and rough.

“Well, it was such a nice compliment, how could I not?”

“You cannot expect me to refrain from taking you against a wall when you come waltzing in wearing nothing but a robe, can you?” Crowley smoothed his hand over Aziraphale’s arse, cupping it in frank appreciation.

“I—“

“And smelling of anointing oil? You know what the smell of cinnamon and myrrh does to me.”

Aziraphale was glad that his demon couldn’t see quite how pleased his smile was at that comment. It was a smell straight from their earliest times together, the holy oil they used in olden times: cinnamon, myrrh, cassia, olive oil, and kaneh bosem. Aziraphale had worn it constantly at one point, but now only sparingly, and Crowley had divulged to him that the scent always reminded him of Aziraphale, the two bound up together inextricably in his memory. Maybe Aziraphale would have to change sparingly to more often. That was one benefit of having a witch (Practical Occultist) as a friend.

“Besides, a potion wouldn’t work on me anyway,” Crowley said, his voice deep and sleepy. When Aziraphale glanced up at him, his eyes were closed. His chest, beneath Aziraphale, rose in a steady rthythm. “I’m already in love with you, as you well know.”

“I know,” Aziraphale said, kissing his jaw softly. “It’s always nice to hear, though. I love you too, you know, demon. Very, very much.”

Crowley sighed and turned on his side, sliding his knee between Aziraphale’s, his arm around his waist, and resting his chin on top of Aziraphale’s curls. Aziraphale snuggled in, enjoying the rangy warmth radiating off Crowley’s body. He let his eyes slip closed, breathing in Crowley’s scent. A nap sounded like just the thing.

A thought struck him just as he was about to nod off. “Oh, Crowley, I have a button I need mending, if you don’t mind…”

Crowley’s arm tightened around Aziraphale. “Go to sleep, angel, you’re wasting a perfectly good cuddle. I’ll take care of it later, I'm asleep just now.”

Aziraphale, never one to waste a perfectly _perfect_ cuddle, followed suite.

**Author's Note:**

> Definitions taken from Wikipedia:
> 
> Chrubim: A cherub (/ˈtʃɛrəb/;[1] plural cherubim; Hebrew: כְּרוּב kərūv, pl. כְּרוּבִים kərūvîm) is one of the unearthly beings who directly attend to God, according to Abrahamic religions. The numerous depictions of cherubim assign to them many different roles, such as protecting the entrance of the Garden of Eden.
> 
> Ishim: In Judaism, the Ishim (Heb. אִישִׁים - "men", "personages", "personalities", "individuals") or Eshim (אֵשִׁים - "fires", "flames", "sparks", "conflagrations") are a class of angels said to be the closest to the affairs of mortals.
> 
> Saraph/Seraphim: A seraph (/ˈsɛrəf/, "the burning one"/"serpent"; or seraphim /ˈsɛrəfɪm/, in the King James Version also seraphims (plural); Hebrew: שָׂרָף śārāf, plural שְׂרָפִים śərāfîm; Latin: seraphim and seraphin (plural), also seraphus (-i, m.); Greek: σεραφείμ serapheím Arabic: مشرفين Musharifin) is a type of celestial or heavenly being originating in Ancient Judaism. The term plays a role in subsequent Judaism, Christianity, and Islam. The singular "seraph" is a back-formation from the Hebrew plural-form "seraphim", whereas in Hebrew the singular is "saraph".
> 
> The list of magickal herbs and their purposes was taken from this webpage:
> 
> https://www.groveandgrotto.com/blogs/articles/a-witchs-glossary-of-herbs
> 
> Title taken from a spell found in the book A Dictionary of Angels, by Gustav Davidson (1994), which was copied from History and Practice of Magic II, by Joseph Ennemoser (1952).
> 
> INVOCATION FOR EXCITING LOVE IN THE HEART OF THE PERSON WHO IS THE OBJECT OF OUR DESIREwith the help of the 137th Psalm  
> Pour oil from a white lily into a crystal goblet, recite the 137th Psalm over the cup and conclude by pronouncing the name of the angel A n a e j , the planetary spirit of Venus,* and the name of the person you love. Next write the name of the angel on a piece of cypress which you will dip in oil and tie the piece of cypress to your right  
> arm. Then wait for a propitious moment to touch the right hand of the person with whom you are in love, and love will be awakened in his or her heart. The operation will be more powerful in effect if you perform it at dawn on the Friday following the new moon.  
> * Also spelt Hamiel, Haniel, Onoel-Ed. 
> 
> Thank you so much for reading! My best friend fell in love with this show and book and ship and fandom and in order to be able to understand her squee I followed her here. This is a brand new fandom/ship for me so forgive any mistakes. I'm always open to fixing errors, so please let me know <3 <3 <3


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